Free One Thing More by Anne Perry

enough.
    Amandine looked at her doubtfully. She passed her the dish of hot soup, making sure she had hold of it in case her frozen fingers let it slip.
    ‘He is,’ Célie assured her, feeling the heat on her hands. She could say it with the ring of conviction because it was true. How Georges kept his courage, alone in that cold attic, she did not know. It was part of his nature, the unreachable confidence in him that nothing seemed to shake, as if he knew a secret no one else did. It was what both attracted her to him, and frightened her because it made him different, invulnerable. He needed her to bring him food, and news, but he would never need anyone, except perhaps Amandine, in an emotional way, and even that was because she was family. Theirs was one of those old ties of land and birth that no outsider could break into.
    Célie took a first mouthful of soup. It was very hot and she could taste the onion in it.
    The kitchen door opened and Madame Lacoste came in. She glanced at both of them. She must have known that Célie had been out because of her wet skirts and the boots on the floor, but whatever she thought, whether she knew it was some errand of Bernave’s or not, she refrained from commenting. She was a quiet woman, possessed of a quality of stillness which was an indication of a kind of peace of heart, a certainty about what she believed, and yet it was a thin covering for intense emotion. Célie had seen it in her face in repose sometimes, an overwhelming hunger so great it made her for an instant both frightening and beautiful. Célie had not been able to fathom her feelings for Bernave. She was always polite to him, but there was a tension in her as if that courtesy cost her some effort, and she did not often meet his eyes. Perhaps whatever he would have seen in them was too private, too dangerous to share. Her son was married to his daughter, and his family needed this home.
    Célie wondered what Madame had been like as a young woman, what her life had held, above all what had drawn her to a dour man like Monsieur Lacoste. There was little wit or joy of life in him, but he had endless patience with the children, and Célie had seen a tenderness in him surprisingly often when he spoke to them. Fernand respected him, and Marie-Jeanne liked him better than she liked her own father.
    Madame flashed her a quick smile, then went across the kitchen to fetch clean linen from the press, and thanked Célie for it. She was almost to the hall when there was a noise outside the back door, it opened and Bernave came in. He slammed it behind him and stood on the stone floor, dripping water from his coat. He was obviously exhausted, his face gaunt in the candlelight, streaked with rain and almost colourless.
    He stamped his feet, shaking the water off himself.
    Amandine loathed him for what he was doing to St Felix, but her deepest instinct was to nurture, and before she had time for memory and emotion to curb her, she took a clean towel from the airing rack and went towards him.
    ‘You are perished, Citizen. Let me take your coat,’ she offered. ‘Dry yourself.’ She held out the towel. ‘I’ll get you some hot soup. Have you eaten today?’
    ‘No ... no time.’ He took the towel and let her remove the coat and hang it near the door where it could drip without shedding puddles over the whole kitchen.
    Célie glanced at Madame, and saw with surprise a look of alarm in her face. Was it concern, or fear? For whom? For Bernave or her own family?
    Bernave looked across and his eyes met Madame’s. They stared at each other for a matter of seconds, and then she broke the silence, speaking quite casually, her voice low.
    ‘You must be cold, Citizen. It is a pity your business requires you to be out on such a day.’
    ‘Lots of things are a pity, Citizeness,’ he replied, his eyes still unwavering on hers. ‘It does no good to think of them. We can only deal with what is.’
    ‘I know that!’ There was pain in her